Life and Lies
by Laetificat
Summary: The summation of the time Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore spent together during the summer which altered Albus's life. Rated M for potential language, violence and innuendo in the future. Friendship-tragedy w/ ROMANCE. Updated on Fridays!


**I'll be trying to update on Fridays!**

 **Word count:** 3,267

 **Song:** _Antichrist_ \- The 1975  
 _Well he comes and he goes, so capricious,_  
 _And his work appears so rushed._  
 _Well, I love the house that we live in._  
 _I love you all too much._  
 _Is it the same for you?_

 **Notes:** _This is a fic that I began writing 8 years ago_ and that was in dire need of revision... and completion. Although five chapters are technically finished, I'll be editing (and, in most cases, entirely rewriting) all of them. This chapter, for instance, never existed in the old fic—you won't see the old chapter one until at least chapter three! If you enjoy this fic, please share it and leave reviews; I appreciate it so much.

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of the characters included in this story belong to me. I'm manipulating the creations of JK Rowling in the name of curiosity.

 **WEDNESDAY JUNE 21 - THURSDAY JUNE 22 (1899)**

Bathilda Bagshot was seated in her living room in Godric's Hollow, opening a letter under the watchful eye of the owl who had delivered it. A famed magical historian and prolific author on the topic, Bathilda was accustomed to receiving a rather large quantity of mail—at least compared to the other magical residents of sleepy Godric's Hollow. This letter, however, was special. It was addressed to "Ms. Bathilda Bagshot" but of greater importance to its recipient was the name of the sender: _Headmaster Armando Dippet, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ Bathilda had been waiting most of the year in anticipation of this letter which, she believed, would offer her a position as Professor of History of Magic at the prestigious school. Unfortunately, as highly anticipated letters often are, Bathilda was finding this one difficult to open. In order to stretch the delicious suspense a little longer, she decided that she would make herself a cup of tea. The owl didn't seem impressed with her decision, hopping anxiously along behind her into the kitchen.

Peering out her window and into the darkness, Bathilda could see rows of gardens which backed onto her own. The largest, directly across from her, was the home of Kendra Dumbledore and her sons—though Kendra was still alone as the boys hadn't yet returned from school. It wasn't _strictly_ true that Kendra was alone: there was also a pair of goats closed up in their shed for the evening. Aside from Bathilda herself, Kendra was perhaps the Hollow's most famous resident. She was certainly its most mysterious. Nearly every wizard in Britain had heard the dark tale of her husband, Percival Dumbledore, who had attacked three young Muggle boys in Mould-on-the-Wold in 1891. Bathilda couldn't recall the details but it had caused quite the buzz for several years after the fact; Kendra had presumably moved her family to escape the rumors.

The rumors… Bathilda had interacted with the Dumbledores in only three significant ways since their arrival in the village. The first was only a few days after they moved in, when she had gone over to introduce herself; Kendra had slammed the door directly in her face before she got her name out. The second interaction, though it could hardly be called that, would have made the most delicious rumor. However, Bathilda had never mentioned it to anyone in Godric's Hollow. It had been the first winter after the Dumbledores moved to Godric's Hollow, only a few months since her welcoming gesture had been so rudely rebuffed. One winter evening Bathilda had been picking Plangentines by moonlight—necessary because the fruit would scream if picked in the daylight—when she noticed a light flicker on in the Dumbledores' backyard. Feeling very much like a Peeping Tom, she had watched through the hedge as the back door opened and Kendra Dumbledore stepped out, dressed in a long, pale dress. With her sharp facial features, seemingly all cheekbones, under the severe bun she usually wore Kendra looked something like a ghost in the darkness. Bathilda attributed it to the moonlight washing out the widow's black hair and olive complexion… and then she saw something that made her blood run cold. Kendra had turned back to the house and beckoned—and out walked a real ghost: a little girl, no more than six or seven, and pale as death from her hair to her toes. She had wandered over to Kendra who took her firmly by the hand and walked the girl round the lawn. Her grip never loosened, for one silent turn around the garden, and then the two disappeared back inside. Bathilda had fairly run into her own home for a stiff drink.

For weeks she had been confused by the sight. Was there some heretofore unknown transdermal hallucinatory property of Plangentine skin? The historian oscillated between believing that Kendra Dumbledore kept a small girl locked in her basement and doubting her own senses. The incident inspired an intense curiosity about the tragic family which Bathilda never would have acted on if it hadn't been for Albus Dumbledore. Kendra's oldest son was incredibly bright and had, apparently, quickly shed his father's reputation upon arriving at Hogwarts.

Bathilda had only become aware of just _how_ bright last year, when Albus was sixteen years old. She had been perusing a copy of the scholarly journal _Transfiguration Today_ when she ran across a positively brilliant paper on trans-species Transfiguration. The writing had been clear and concise but also incredibly witty; although it wasn't her area of study, it had been a delight to read. When she finished it and went to check the name of the author, she found "Albus Dumbledore" printed next to a photograph of an extremely familiar auburn-haired boy smiling seriously into the camera—her neighbor across the way. Seeing the opportunity immediately, she hadn't hesitated in sending an owl off to Hogwarts that very day with a letter complimenting the eldest Dumbledore's aptitude… and expressing an interest in talking with him in detail about his work. The reply had been very polite and reserved—Bathilda had laughed to think of the young academic's nervousness at seeing her name on the envelope. She could laugh now to think that she was behaving much the same way with Armando Dippet's unread letter. Flicking her wand at the teapot so it would begin to brew itself, she continued to stare out her rear window. The owl hooted irritably.

Her third interaction with the Dumbledores had taken place last summer. When Albus returned home for vacation, a few months after the letter, Bathilda had received an invitation to tea from Kendra Dumbledore herself and nearly fallen over with surprise. The whole affair was much understated and, when she was finally made privy to the inner sanctum, she found it underwhelmingly normal. Kendra was formal but a fine hostess and Albus had talked endlessly about his interest in academia. The younger boy, Aberforth, clearly did not share his brother's enthusiasm for education and disappeared after a few hours to tend the family's goats; he had never come back. Even after a very courteous tour around the entire house and garden, Bathilda never once saw a little girl. She'd left cheerful but more confused than she had ever been.

It had been over a year since Bathilda had thought in any seriousness about that little girl but now, staring at the Dumbledore's back garden in the dark, she couldn't seem to shake the perfect memory. Something about the tableau had struck her as profoundly sad. Shaking her head at her own foolishness Bathilda turned her back on the window, no ghosts in sight—she had a letter to read and her future to consider. The owl once again hobbled after her as she headed back to the living room, teacup floating complacently behind her.

Over her shoulder, a dim light flickered on in the Dumbledore house.

 **o o o**

The following day dawned particularly bright for Bathilda Bagshot, Hogwarts' newest Professor of History of Magic… as soon as Headmaster Dippet received his returned owl, of course. She had finally gotten her mind off the Dumbledores for long enough to write a deeply appreciative reply that she hoped fully conveyed how excited she was to start teaching in the fall. So pleased was she, in fact, that she decided she would head into town and have her breakfast at the bakery. Though it was still fairly early in the morning, the sun was already out and she had no need of a jacket. With a jaunty wave of her wand, Bathilda's rather flamboyant hat landed on her head and she strolled out the front door.

Not long heading down the road, Bathilda spotted a familiar slender woman walking up the hill toward her own home. Reminiscence of the night before still firm in her memory, Bathilda gave a weak smile and a small wave to Kendra Dumbledore who returned the gesture amicably. As they drew nearer to each other, Bathilda stopped walking—she was so full of good news that she would speak to the first person she saw, even if that person wouldn't ordinarily be her first choice for an exciting conversation.

"Good morning, Kendra," she beamed and Mrs. Dumbledore stopped, moving the basket she was carrying to her hip. "Your boys must be back from school soon?"

"They will be tomorrow, thank you. I'm going to try to get some baking done before they arrive."

"I'd have thought you'd be waiting in London already," Bathilda said distractedly, trying to figure out a way to steer the conversation to herself.

"Not this year," Kendra smiled, clearly proud. "Albus learned to Apparate at the end of last summer, he'll be bringing Aberforth back sidealong."

"Of course he did, brilliant boy! No one I'd trust more. He must be such a joy to his professors."

"I haven't heard anything to the contrary. But he's never been more flattered than he was by your letter, Bathilda." The historian beamed. That was high praise from Kendra… and a perfect segue.

"Well then, I suppose you'll know for certain that one of his professors is deeply impressed by him next year." Bathilda touched a finger to the side of her nose. "History of Magic! I received the owl from Headmaster Dippet last night."

"How lovely!" Kendra said, smiling, and Bathilda was a bit disappointed that her news hadn't garnered more enthusiasm. That's what she got for spouting off at the first person who happened by.

"Indeed, Kendra, dear," Bathilda said and suddenly something struck her. A sort of vengeful spirit, brought on by the previous night's recollections. "But that's not why I stopped you. Unfortunately I've heard the strangest rumor."

Kendra looked only politely interested, as she might in response to any other piece of village gossip that Bathilda brought her. For a moment, Bathilda Bagshot hesitated on the edge of speech—lying did not come easily to her and, more than that, she was scared to confirm the bizarre scene she'd witnessed years ago.

"I've heard it mentioned… you know, I heard someone say in town that they saw you. Out in the garden late at night, with a little girl."

There was a pause that lasted a fraction of a second, just long enough for Kendra to process what she'd heard, and then she laughed naturally.

"With what manner of little girl?" she chuckled, clearly amused. "If it were so easy to find them around I'm sure I wouldn't be a lonely old widow in an empty house."

For her part, Bathilda wasn't quite sure how to respond. Of all the possible reactions, this wasn't what she'd expected. What had she expected? She didn't know.

"Well, I… quite right." She laughed uncomfortably. It suddenly seemed very awkward to be bringing this piece of 'gossip' directly to Kendra, who had already been the victim of hardship and scrutiny. "Yes, of course."

"I wish I had a daughter." Kendra continued wistfully, something like sadness crossing her face. Bathilda felt even worse.

"That's alright, dear, quite all right," Bathilda said, feeling distinctly wrong-footed and mentally scrambling to change the topic. "If you can stand yet another boy coming around once in a while, my nephew will be visiting this summer. I'm sure he could learn a thing or two from Albus."

Kendra smiled courteously and nodded acquiescence but she seemed preoccupied and Bathilda's good mood was rapidly waning. She paid a few more off-hand compliments to the Dumbledore boys and then said her goodbyes as quickly as was polite. Luckily Kendra didn't seem particularly interested in prolonging the conversation so that in short order Bathilda was hurrying down the street, keener than ever for a warm pastry and some more typical friends to gossip with.

 **o**

Kendra slammed the door to her home shut behind her and leaned against it for a moment, her heart hammering in her chest. Taking a steadying breath, she placed her basket on the table, withdrew her wand and moved slowly around the kitchen, lighting candles. Though the summer sun was high in the sky outside, the curtains were drawn in the Dumbledores' kitchen and these were the only source of light.

Bathilda Bagshot was the closest thing that Kendra had to a friend in Godric's Hollow. Her husband, Percival, had reminded her from Azkaban for years that she must rebuff everyone in the village, make herself appear pleasant but aloof. And she had. Even after his death, Kendra kept herself entirely isolated in her little home in Godric's Hollow with no company for most of the year. Well, no company except the goats… and her sick daughter. Ariana was her dearest secret and the reason for this long-affected solitude. It was for Ariana's sake that Kendra had slammed the door in Bathilda Bagshot's face the first time her neighbor came around to welcome them to the neighborhood. And it was Ariana she'd put at risk after Bathilda reached out to Albus. Inviting the historian to tea was incredibly risky and Percival would never have approved but Albus was brilliant and Kendra knew he would change the world one day; she wanted him to take advantage of every opportunity presented to him. She would not allow Ariana's accident to control his life as completely as it controlled hers. She hadn't regretted the decision once in the last year.

Until this moment.

Kendra was racking her brain, trying to think of anything Bathilda might have seen last year, what suspicions she had opened herself up to. And who in the entire village was talking about Ariana. Who could have seen them in the garden? _It's been years since I was bold enough to take her past the goat shed,_ Kendra lamented silently as she climbed down her basement stairs to her daughter's room. She stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to calm her anxiety before waking Ariana. The youngest Dumbeldore's temperament required that she be placed in a bewitched sleep whenever she had to be left alone. If Kendra's mood was anything other than tranquil—completely stable and loving—she risked a poor reaction that could send her daughter into hysterics.

Kendra closed her eyes. It would be an enormous relief to her to have her boys back home, although she wouldn't have her eldest for long. Albus's new ability to transport himself and Aberforth—allowing Kendra to stay at home with Ariana—was boon enough. Her daughter required constant, hyper-vigilant supervision to ensure her safety. Kendra mused on the irony: if she had been this attentive when Ariana was younger, she wouldn't have needed to be now. Sometimes she worried about what would happen to Ariana when her mother was gone and could no longer watch her. The girl preferred Aberforth over every other living member of the family and Kendra knew he would not hesitate to care for her. That Ariana would have a loving caregiver was not a question; what she worried over was whether or not she was forcing an impossible burden on her youngest son. The blonde, angelic-looking daughter showed no signs of improvement since her accident and, it seemed to Kendra, may have been worsening. Her sensitivities were increasing in number and her responses building in severity. Last week Ariana had nearly burned the goat shed down in a fit of terror when she'd thought one of the goats was missing.

For now it was manageable. Kendra had chosen to address the issue by controlling every possible stimulus that Ariana came in contact with. All lights were kept low, voices were kept calm and quiet, and their days were highly structured and predictable. Most importantly, there was very little magic used. Kendra was confident that she was doing the absolute best thing for her daughter when the alternative was admittance to the mental ward of St. Mungo's. That kind of impersonal communal environment would see Ariana confused and in pain for most of the rest of her life, Kendra was certain. She had already watched her noble husband die in abominable conditions for Ariana's sake; she would not watch their baby girl waste away in the same manner. That was why they had moved to Godric's Hollow and why Ariana was so deliberately well-hidden—though the thought of Ariana's hiding sent a cold shiver down Kendra's spine.

 _Stop it. Calm yourself._

She had dedicated all the time she could afford to meditation. There was bread to bake and her daughter could not remain in a magically-induced sleep the whole afternoon; that was hardly better than being locked up in a mental ward. She moved softly to the 14-year-old's bedside to be present when she came around; all manner of things could set the youngest Dumbledore off and waking up alone was just one of many. Sitting on the bed next to Ariana, Kendra waved her wand over her daughter and then quickly stowed it away. When Ariana's blue eyes opened, Kendra was already stroking her corn silk hair and speaking softly.

"Come on, my sleeping beauty, we're going to bake," she whispered and Ariana pushed herself up obediently. None of her children had very much of her in their features, Kendra thought as she fussed with the collar of Ariana's dress—perhaps the straight noses and high cheekbones. Albus was the spitting image of his father, with the exception of his red hair, and Ariana and Aberforth were both alike in colour with their blue eyes, fair skin, and blond hair. Olive-skinned and dark herself, Kendra was too fond of their father to be unhappy with how strongly they resembled him. When Ariana was presentable ( _To whom?_ Kendra wondered), the two Dumbledore women climbed the stairs to see about baking.

"Ari," Kendra said, her voice gentle and measured, as she began to pull ingredients from cupboards and her basket by hand. This lack of magic was largely for Ariana's benefit but Kendra had grown up in a Muggle home with Muggle parents… it was sometimes satisfying to make things with your hands. "Do you remember who's coming home tomorrow?"

As she began mixing the ingredients and kneading bread at the counter, Kendra's eyes regularly darted from Ariana's face to the shuttered windows as though prepared for disaster at any moment. Ariana, for her part, seemed pleasantly distracted by the movements of her mother's hands.

"Hmm," Ariana mumbled under her breath and reached toward the bread. Kendra patiently tore a piece of dough from the loaf she was working on and handed it to her daughter, who began to roll it inattentively back and forth between her hands. She had a habit of responding to her mother when she wasn't actually listening; several moments had passed and Kendra knew Ariana hadn't even heard a question. Repeating herself just as gently, Kendra had to fight down a small surge of frustration. This time, although she didn't look up or make eye contact, Ariana did reply:

"Aberforth and Albus."

Kendra smiled. Involuntarily, she recalled the lies she'd told Bathilda earlier and allowed herself to relax; she had been casual, joking, and had betrayed no interest whatsoever in the topic. Kendra had been practicing this deception for eight years already and it would take more than one unconfirmed piece of gossip to force it to give up the ghost. However, she also remembered what she had said about wishing she had a daughter and it made her heart ache. She did wish she had a daughter… her own daughter back, whole and undamaged—but then she caught a glimpse of Ariana rolling the dough with utmost concentration.

Her loss could have been so much worse.


End file.
